The Tie Clip

by Dick Schneider

 

It was the day after Christmas, 1932 and a blustery wind traced white veins of snow across the sidewalk in front of our house. I glanced out the window of our living room where I was playing with my Christmas toys and the joy of the moment was snuffed as quickly as a candle.

 

Uncle Emil was coming.

 

A black sheep in the family, he worked on and off for the Chicago and North Western Railroad. He held the job only because he had lost an arm as a youngster while ducking between some freight cars, and the railroad felt it owed him this much.

 

However, the loss never seemed to bother Uncle Emil. Often, when his heavy jowls were flushed, he would take a stance like an angry bull elephant in the middle of the living room and boast of how many men he had fought to the ground with his one good arm. Every once in a while he would disappear into the bathroom and reappear ruddier than ever. It took me a few years to realize that it wasn't his kidneys but a pocket flask that prompted these frequent visits.

 

He had been married once, or twice; no one really knew. And now he lived alone in a room on Chicago's west side.

 

Uncle Emil talked incessantly of things of no interest to a ten-year-old; of ways to win at the race track, important positions he had turned down at the railroad, and, after several trips to the bathroom, of new speakeasies he had found. Bored almost to sleep, I listened with half an ear only.

 

One unforgettable year when his voice reached a high intensity, he became quite enthused about a new set of false teeth. Suddenly he took them out and flung them across the room for me to inspect.

 

Trying to hide my disgust, I gingerly handed them back and ate little dinner afterwards.

 

Thus, every December as the holiday approached, I would complain to my mother about Uncle Emil's impending visit. "But why, Mom, why?"

 

"Because it is Christmas."

 

"He ruins Christmas."

 

"He has nowhere else to go," said Mother, her mouth firm, signaling an end to the discussion.

 

And now Uncle Emil was coming. Two days ago, Mother had given me a dollar to buy a gift for him.

 

As I entered the five-and-ten, a seed of evil entered my soul. Looking at the worn dollar bill, I could see no reason why I should buy that man a gift when there were so many things I needed. There was a model of the Gee Bee Sportster airplane I had always wanted to build. Its cost seventy-five cents, but I could still find something nice for Uncle Emil with the remaining quarter.

 

Finding something for twenty-five cents wasn't as simple as I had thought. But the salesgirls were beginning to drape clothes over the counters as closing time neared, and I settled on a cheap gold-colored tie clip.

 

I eased my conscience with the thought that, after all, he never brought us a Christmas present. At least an aunt brought chocolate coins in gold foil though they tasted of moth balls from a year's storage in her dresser drawer. She always bought her holiday gifts after Christmas markdowns.

 

Uncle Emil settled himself in his usual chair, and again I sat through the usual harangue, interspersed with bathroom breaks.

 

I had not shown Mother his gift. I wrapped it beforehand and presented it to Uncle Emil in the living room while she added last-minute touches to the dessert. Just as he unwrapped it, Mother stepped into the living room. One glance at the tie clip and she turned to me, eyes blazing. Then, quickly covering her anger, she said: "Come, Emil, it's time for dinner."

 

Heaving his ponderous bulk from the cushioned chair, he slipped the tie clip into a coat pocket and lumbered to the table. After dinner, Mother helped him into his coat and then stood at the living room window watching him walk, head bent into the swirling snow, to catch the streetcar. Retribution rained heavily on me that night. Mother informed me in no uncertain terms that Uncle Emil never wore ties because he couldn't knot them. And, if I had any thought for others, I could see that.

 

The following spring Uncle Emil died, After the funeral, Mother and I went to clean out his room, a small, dingy chamber that smelled of mouthwash and shaving soap, with a cracked green shade at the window. It was the first time that I saw where he lived.

 

While Mother packed clothes into a carton for the Salvation Army I studied the walls of his room. Cracked yellowing snapshots were stuck inside the frame of his mirror; here and there an old letter, wrapped in a ribbon. Treasured fragments of those he had loved. And then something caught my eye. I couldn't believe it. Up on the wall, clipped on a Christmas card from our family was the cheap tie clip, tarnished by the past four months.

 

On the card with it were some words in his labored scrawl. I stood on tiptoes and dimly made them out:

 

"Christmas, 1932, from my nephew."

 

Suddenly, Uncle Emil's life fell in on me--his losing battle with the world, his hunger for companionship, his longing to have someone with whom to talk.

 

The shadowed glint of the tie clip wavered and dimmed in my vision. Wiping my eyes, I moved over to Mother, stumbling gently into her side.

 

"Mom," I said over a lump swelling in my throat, "I'm awfully glad we had him for Christmas."

She glanced up at the tie clip, and then at me. She reached down and gripped my shoulder for a moment; I think she knew that in Uncle Emil's room I had begun to grow up.